by Eli Steele
“Shit, that’s a real army,” Ezra whispered.
Pagan grunted in affirmation.
“How many are there?” Roke asked.
Musing the thought for a moment, Griffon replied, “Maybe a thousand, maybe more?”
“A thousand? There’s a dozen armsmen at the Brae, and that’s counting us!” Roke exclaimed.
“We can double that in two days’ time, and have fifty by the week’s end.” Replied Griffon. “And thereafter, we will levy men enough to drive them out of Beyorn, or run them through with a spear.”
“But what can fifty do until then?”
“They’ll hold the Brae is what they’ll do,” Griffon retorted. Exhaustion lay bare the bite of his words.
“Twenty to one is manageable,” Ezra added. “The keep is strong, and well positioned – better than most. We can hold out until we have reinforcements. A thousand swords is reckless against Hell’s Gate and the right fifty. This army will fall in the Braewood and feed the dirt, and the tree rings will be thick come spring.”
Pagan yawned, too tired to concur.
Standing, Griffon said, “Before the sun rises again, we’ll be readying the Brae. Sleep in the saddle if you must. Let’s go.’’
Chapter 4
Rowan Vos
City of Ashmor
Kingdom of Beyorn
Laying in the cot, he stared at the ceiling. Rowan was restless yet exhausted. Sleep had been brief and filled with vivid flashbacks of the night before.
What had he really witnessed? He wasn’t sure anymore. Hadan’s Quarter had been dark and he’d been tired. And a trick of the light could betray a weary eye.
Speaking of weary...
He closed his eyes once more. Listening to the rain patter on the warehouse roof, he exhaled deeply and pushed away the thoughts. Relaxing his muscles, he lay motionless. Sleep crept closer.
As he drifted off, he wrestled with the one fact that he couldn’t explain away. Those visions weren’t his. Through his own eyes, Rowan saw a thousand days of the old man’s life. Dark, haunting days.
* * * * *
He awoke in a cold sweat. Sitting upright, he rubbed his head. A dull ache nagged his temples. A dream that wasn’t his own still tormented him.
Get out of my head you old bastard…
Planting his feet on the floor, he listened for the rain, but it was gone. Ducking to avoid the roof joists, he padded over to the attic porthole. Looking out, Rowan saw the sun slipping past the horizon.
He felt the locket against his skin. “Shit, I’m late,” he muttered.
Pulling it out from under his shirt, he examined it.
You’re proving to be far more trouble than you’re worth…
In the far corner, he knelt and rummaged through his pack. In the bottom he found a pouch of dried figs. Eating them, he eyed the sealed letter.
Who are you, Thatcher Frost?
Beside it lay the blade. Rowan unsheathed it. Too long to be a dagger, it was a short sword, but barely.
It felt good in his hand. But not in the meaning of it being expertly balanced, or that it gripped well, or how it tended to point naturally where one imagined it ought, of which it was all those things. Rather, it felt good. Rowan’s troubles subsided. A clarity of mind settled in. Closing his eyes for a moment, he was at ease.
He wasn’t sure how long he’d held the blade, but when he opened his eyes the room was dark. Startled, he dropped it. The clatter of the steel on wood echoed in the small space. Resheathing it, he gathered his gear and slipped his pack onto his back. Rowan peered out the porthole and saw the moon low in the sky.
It’s been an hour, at least... Maybe longer…
Climbing down from the hidden loft, he followed the narrow corridor between the crates to the warehouse’s back exit. Rowan cracked the door and peered down the dark alley. Avoiding a large puddle, he slipped into the night.
The streets were emptying, but alive yet. Hugging the shadows, he avoided the drifters, and grifters, and stumbling tavern-sifters. Father Brayden often said, ‘Nothing good happened after sundown.’
The older I get, the more I believe it…
Three blocks from the warehouse, Rowan sensed a presence. Cutting an eye over his shoulder, he glanced about. The street was empty. A lone lantern creaked, swaying on its hook.
Quickening his pace, he doubled back. On an empty street, he melted into an alcove. Closing his eyes, he imagined thick shadows enveloping him. Rowan found himself reaching for the blade. Remembering the lost time in the flat, he redirected his hand to his dagger instead. Drawing the blade, he waited.
But no one appeared. After a long wait, he emerged from his shadows to a still-empty street.
Get it together, Vos…
For four more blocks he stole through the Docks District, doubling back on himself twice again. He continued to search the darkened rooftops and side streets, but saw no one. His instincts gradually yielded to reason.
Rounding the last corner, he saw the glow of yellow light spilling across the street. Through an open door, a cittern’s calming instrumental drifted out. A faded sign hung overhead.
Flame & Flagon
Stepping inside, the familiar smells of the tavern eased his mind. The space was empty, save for a few regulars. Looking up at him, they nodded. Casually, he did the same. Formalities complete, they returned to their conversations.
Gib, the bartender, flashed him a toothy smile. Rowan nodded. Past his prime, with a barrel-chest and even bigger belly, Gib was still a domineering figure. There was a reason the Flagon boasted the fewest tavern brawls in all the city.
She was at the bar, facing away from him. How someone could ever find a moment’s peace with their back to a public entrance, he didn’t know. A full pint and an empty pitcher attended her.
Slipping up from behind, he slid onto the stool beside her. “Sorry I’m late.”
Looking over, she scowled. “You son of a bitch.” Her voice settled somewhere between a snarl and an angry whisper.
Here we go...
“Were you drugged and gagged?”
Resisting the urge to engage, he stared straight ahead.
“...Someone rake a knife down you back?”
“Kass...”
She looked him over. “Not a single bruise, so I presume not. Well, what was it then? Did you lose your boots in a brothel?”
“Kassina!”
With a huff, she downed the pint.
“I had some trouble, alright?”
“You’re late. An entire day late. I thought... I thought something had happened to you...”
Damn, woman. Are you even listening to me? Something did!
“So, where’ve you been?”
“Wel-“
Pressing a finger against his lips a tad too hard, she whispered, “Shut up. Not here.” Kassina scanned the room conspicuously before saying, “Come on.”
Standing, she stumbled a bit. With a quick lunge, Rowan caught her. Draping an arm over his shoulder, she looked at him before rolling her eyes.
Delightful. I take it this’s not your first pitcher of the night?
Together, they shuffled towards a back door. A pair of regulars eyed Rowan. He shrugged innocently. Chuckling, they returned to their ale.
Beyond the door, a flight of stairs lead down. A single lantern lit the way. Rowan teetered between balancing Kassina and nearly falling himself.
At the bottom, a typical tavern cellar welcomed them. Wine casks and ale barrels were stacked about. Condensation bled through the stone walls. An oaky musk tinged the air. Several doors led to adjacent rooms. Rowan guided them to the nearest one on the right.
The space was small and unassuming. A cluttered desk faced a far corner. Mounted above it was a light crossbow a quiver of bolts. A curved dagger rested atop the crossbow.
A small bed ran along a side wall. In the center rested a circular table and several
chairs. The space glowed by the pale light of two oil lamps.
Stepping into the room, he steadied Kassina before turning to shut the door. As he spun back around, she stepped forward and pressed her lips against his, before slapping him.”
“That’s for making it back, and for making me wait.”
“Damn it, Kass, enough!”
Rowan parked her in a chair. He took a seat across the table, opposite of her and just out of reach.
“I’m sorry, ok?”
“Yeah, yeah,” he said. Removing the locket from around his neck, he coiled it on the table.
She eyed it, then him. “You...” Letting out a measured squeal, she picked it up and examined it. “This is it! Ms. Mercier will be ecstatic!”
“And her purse will be a right bit lighter.”
Kassina giggled for a moment, before clasping it around her neck and resuming her solemn face. “Speaking of lighter purses...”
“Your instructions were clear. Nothing else was taken, not even some of the most spectacular Cyrenian coins.”
“And the guards?”
“No one was harmed. They probably still don’t even know I was there.”
“Delightful. Now, tell me. Where’ve you been?”
He sighed. “It’s a long story.”
“It’s drunk, I’m late, and we’ve nowhere else to be.”
“The latter may be true enough, but based on the formers, this may be a conversation better suited for the morning.”
“Fine... it’s always your way.”
It’s never my way...
Standing, he helped her to the bed. Plopping down, she fell back against the thin mattress. Her blondish-brown hair fanned out around her head.
Even when you’re fighting drunk you’re still stunning.
Eyes closed, she whispered. “Ro...”
“Yeah?”
“Come closer…”
He leaned in.
“Are you in some kind of trouble?“
“What do you mean?”
“A man came by asking about you earlier. We’ve never seen him in the Flagon before, none of us.”
“Did he give a reason?”
“No...”
“Prob’ly about a job.”
Opening one eye, she studied him. “Ro, it wasn’t a job. And he didn’t look like the type of person you’d want to cross.”
Brushing several strands of hair from her face, he gazed into her sapphire eyes said, “If he shows back up, I’ll handle it.”
As he reached the door, Kassina mumbled again. “We’d make a good pair, you and I.”
We’d make a pair, alright… The worst pair… You’re a mad drunk and you drink all the time. Smiling, he simply said, “I know...”
* * * * *
Rowan awoke to muffled footsteps overhead. The old floor joists creaked and groaned. Someone was apparently dragging chairs around, too.
A tavern never sleeps. Nor do I these days, it seems…
Pulling on his pants, he thought about the nightmare he’d awoken from. It had been a particularly gruesome one. In it, he’d casually watched a man tortured to death.
Another fond memory of yours, I presume?
Upstairs, a lone barmaid was putting the room back in order. Besides her and Kassina, the Flagon was empty.
“Ida, go home,” Rowan said, smiling. “We’ll finish the rest.”
“Thanks, Ro,” she replied. “Take care of our girl.”
He nodded.
Seated at the bar, Kassina picked dried strawberries out of her oats. Rowan disappeared into the kitchen, before returning with a bowl. He joined her.
“How you feelin’?”
“Like finishing this might be the hardest thing I do all day.”
Stealing a bite of hers, he said, “Here, let me help.”
“Thanks.” She smiled.
“So, what do you remember from last night?”
“The high points... Your being late of course, and taking my abuse, and then tucking me into bed.”
“That sums it up nicely.”
“Not quite...”
He knew the question before she even asked.
“You have many qualities I admire,” she continued,” but several in particular. Among them, you are a ridiculously capable burglar, and as reliable as a church clock; annoyingly so, even. You’re never, not ever, late. What kept you?”
“You’re not going to believe me.”
“Try me,” she said.
Rowan sighed. “The job went fine. Couldn’t have gone better, actually. So, I’m on the rooftops, making way my here, and I come across a fight...”
Kassina studied him. “A fight?”
“If you can call it that. It was in Hadan’s Quarter. There was this old man. I guess they’d cornered him there.”
“They?”
Shrugging, he replied, “Not quite sure who, but by the looks of it, they were professionals.”
She placed her hand on his. “You witnessed a murder?”
“More like a slaughter. But not the old man. Kass, he flung them through the air, yet he never even touched them.”
“Rowan...”
“I know, I’ve told myself the same thing, but I saw what I saw. And... I’m pretty sure he struck three of them with lightning.”
Kassina threw her head back and laughed. “Is this a joke?”
Pushing back from the bar, Rowan stood. “Maybe... I should go.”
Her smiled faded. She studied his face. “Fine, let’s say I believe you.”
Pacing the floor, he began again. Rowan’s words were directed as much to himself as they were to her. “I think he read my mind. And when he did, I think I got a glimpse of his.”
“What did you see?”
“So many things. Things I don’t know how to describe. Things I’m already forgetting, but they come back in my dreams. Every time I close my eyes, that asshole’s kicking around in my head.”
Kassina sat in silence for a time, before saying, “Alright.”
“Alright what?”
“Tell me one of these visions.”
Rowan reclaimed his seat. Elbows on the bar, he closed his eyes, thought for a long moment, and began. “An ancient growth surrounds me. It’s thick and cold. A heavy canopy masks the moon and stars. Winds swirl about the trees, cutting through my fur cloak like it’s a threadbare gown. And with it, snow blows sideways through the forest. Here and there the flurries chase the wind until they cake against the side of a tree or disappear into the gloom. My teeth chatter. It’s so cold.
In my left hand is a torch. Its flame does little to push back the dark. And in my right is a staff, gnarled and knotted.
Somewhere far away, a wolf’s call marries with the wind’s howl. Their song is haunting.
‘You betrayed us, Orick,’ a voice calls out.
‘You betrayed yourselves,’ I reply, not quite sure what I even mean.
Out from behind a tree steps a figure, torch in his left hand, staff in his right.
With a flash of movement, his staff flicks forward. My head jerks back, as if someone has grabbed my hair from behind. Fighting back with my mind, I slowly bring my eyes back down to his. They narrow.
Still groaning from the force, I bat my staff to the side. The man slams into a tree and collapses. Cautiously, I approach. I let my staff fall and retrieve a blade from my belt.
The figure looks up. His eyes are terror-filled. He raises a hand, but it’s too late. With a downward arc, I slam the blade into the soft flesh at the base of his neck. With a twist, I bury it to the hilt.”
Kassina shivered. “I don’t like that story.”
“Yeah? Try living it.”
“Maybe it’ll pass in time.”
“Maybe so, but here’s the problem.” Retrieving the sword from its sheath, he placed it on the table. “This is the blade I, or rather he, used to kill the man.”
/>
“Orick,” she corrected.
Shrugging, he replied, “I guess so.”
She reached for the blade.
“Careful,” he cautioned.
Balancing it in her hand, she cut him an eye. “I know my way around a sword. I’m not going to hurt myself, Ro.”
“Right. I mean, it doesn’t... it doesn’t feel odd?”
“Odd?” She snorted. “It’s fantastic. The craftsmanship is exquisite.”
“But does it make you feel weird?”
“Umm, no, but you are,” she replied.
Taking the sword from her, he sheathed it. The same wave of calmness overtook him, as it did every time he gripped it.
“We should take it to Gruff Wray,” Kassina suggested. “I think that’s a blade he’d like to see. Maybe he can tell you something about it.”
Rowan nodded. “That’s a good idea.”
“So... Orick, he’s dead?”
“Maybe. Not when I saw him last.”
“Then how’d you get his sword?”
“He gave it to me.” Reaching in his coat pocket, he retrieved the letter. “This, too.”
“A letter? What’s it say?”
Rowan put it away. “No idea.”
“You mean you haven’t opened it?”
“No, and I don’t intend to, either.”
“What are you supposed to do with the letter?”
“Deliver it to Thatcher Frost.”
“Thatcher Frost? Thatcher Frost... I’ve heard that name...”
“Doesn’t matter, I’m not getting involved.”
“Ro, you’re already involved...” Her face turned pale. “And what if the man from yesterday was after the sword?”
“Then he can have it.”
“I don’t think it would be that simple with him. Didn’t seem the type that would just take it and leave. He unnerved the whole room, even Gib.”
Standing, he said, “It’s a trouble for another day.”
“Where are you going?”
“To church...”
Chapter 5
